When Tomorrow Came
by Phoenixflames12
Summary: A boy lies recovering in the guest bedroom of an escaped convict surrounded by the battered remains of a 'group that barely missed becoming historic'. The sound of a knock at the door shatters the sleepy silence. My version of Les Hommes de la Misercorde so all credit goes to Kchann88! Please feel free to read and review! Much love x
1. Chapter 1

When tomorrow came

It is evening when they come. Early evening; the sky slowly slipping into a cold, dove grey from behind the slashed windows of the room where seven bodies slump in chairs, slouch against the walls or in the case of one; lie in a bed made up with fresh, starched sheets smelling of lavender. His face is pale, but alive as he sleeps; his eyelids fluttering slightly as a shaking hand gropes to grasp that of another who sits as close to the bed as he dares; wire framed spectacles balanced perilously on the bridge of his nose. The hands touch, the space between bed and chair momentarily closed as fingers grope and grasp; desperate for the comfort that only another's touch can bring. The yellow, waning flame from the candles that stand on the bookshelf dance across the room casting huge shadows on the ceiling; guttering and leaping with life in equal measure. The boy who is curled like a cat in the lap of his guardian shifts slightly; his mop of dirty blond air tumbling carelessly over a pale, oval shaped face, the sharp cheekbones adorned with a smattering of freckles. Outside the room, wooden floorboards creak with the weight of unknown footsteps. A distant cat yowls a screeching lullaby to the sliver of silver suspended in the velvety, indigo darkness and the sound of distant fiacre wheels rumble over the cobbled street; coming closer to a house with a green door and a brass knocker in the shape of an eagle.

A short, sharp knock shatters the silence of the night. Brisk, frigid words are exchanged; cold and clear in the June darkness that is heavy with sleep. A woman answers, her voice tense and just as sharp; but she does not know anything, not yet. Another voice calls out softly to her and there is the sound of footsteps on the stairs. The boys in the upstairs room with the bed and the candlesticks however, sleep on.

He doesn't know what awakes him, as he lies in the bed with the pillows and Combeferre's hand clutching at his own. He only knows that something is wrong, but what; he can't tell. Something has changed though, something in the heady mixture of fear and relief that shroud this chamber that has become their home. Tentatively he glances over at the door and sees a sliver of dancing, yellow light illuminating the crack between that separates it from the floor. A light that wasn't there before. Why is it there now? He doesn't know. Unheeded, unwanted panic rises in his parched throat as his eyes slowly become accustomed to the darkness. From his bed, he can make out shapes slumped in sleep; shapes he knows, so why is he so suddenly afraid? He doesn't know and that frightens him. A muttered cry shatters the silence as a shadow sits bolt up and looks across at him; eyes huge in the dancing light. Feuilly. They stare at each other from across the room and still the light refuses to go away. 'What is it?' He knows as much as Feuilly; that is, nothing. 'Does 'Ferre know?' No. He doesn't want to wake his companion; not after everything that he put him through earlier. The pain, the heartbreak, the constant, agonising worry that the fever might carry the blond haired angel back to heaven. A fever brought on by men whose sole purpose was to knock an angel off its perch; or so Grantaire would say without a hint of irony. Instinctively he glances over at Combeferre, whose hand now rests on the bed frame, fingers still clenched in an empty embrace. From the other side of the room, by the door, Grantaire lets out a slow, rumbling snore. Then, silence.

He hears it then. Footsteps, quick and hurried on the wooden floor outside the room. Urgent, whispered voices and the sound of a knob being grasped. Who? He doesn't know. A girl's voice filters through the crack; a voice that makes him think of Marius and the concern in those large, dark blue eyes as they told him what Grantaire had heard about Monsieur Frauchlevent in the sewers. Sweat erupts suddenly on the back of his hands; icy cold and yet burning the tender flesh that had so recently been succumbed to the mercy of the fever. He doesn't like it, whatever it is and knows that the others need to know. Now. 'Combeferre? Combeferre, wake up!' His voice cracks slightly as he leans over the edge of the bed to shake the body of his sleeping friend. His hand is trembling uncontrollably as he clutches the thin fabric of the jacket; the fear rising palpably in his throat with every passing second. What is going on?


	2. Chapter 2

'Enjolras? Enjolras, what's the matter?' 'Ferre's voice is sluggish with sleep as he looks at him through heavy eyes. He can't answer, can't put into the words that sudden, terrifying fear that has overcome him. His eyes dart back to the door and sees that the space between door and floor is lighter. More voices. Male this time; deep and rough; grating on an ear so used to soft silence. 'Enjolras?' Combeferre's eyes follow his own and widen with disbelief, his hand instinctively reaching for the boy in the bed. No. This can't happen. They can't lose him. Not after all they had gone through together. Not after they had been saved. With a silent efficiency that only 'Ferre can achieve, he feels his friend rise and pad softly round the room, waking the rest. Seeing this, Feuilly rises and takes Combeferre's place at the bedside; his eyes huge, his face deathly pale with fear and worry. What's happening? He doesn't know. A rough, warm hand slips into his own and he squeezes the calloused fingers, trying to inject some confidence that he can't feel. The metallic note of silver on wood makes him turn his head as he sees Grantaire pick up the candlestick and move with it towards the bed; his face tight, his expression unreadable in the gloom. Gavroche clutches at Courfeyrac's hand as they move as one towards the other side of the bed, footsteps slow and laboured with tiredness. Nobody speaks. Nobody moves. Tension spirals in waves from bodies so recently absorbed in sleep. Eyes dart from face to face; checking, reassuring. Gavroche's small body trembles, his eyes huge in the candlelight as he grips Courfeyrac's hand, small, dirty teeth biting a lip so hard that spots of scarlet blood are appearing on the tender skin. The only sound that is barely audible is the harsh, ragged breaths as seven bodies inhale and exhale, silently praying for survival.

The sound of a door being pushed open shatters the silence and he jumps; heads whipping round in alarm as yet another candle flickers into life. A pale faced, brown haired girl with large blue eyes stands in a white nightdress, her feet bare; a long, dark green cloak thrown over her shoulders. He breathes out after what seems like hours. Cosette. It is Cosette. Silently she moves across the room until she reaches Combeferre and stops; gazing round at seven faces which are pale with tiredness and yet alive with fear. 'They've come.' Two words whispered into an oppressive silence. He can barely take it in. Who has come? And yet the question hardly needs answering, because he knows instinctively who they are. The police. The police with an arrest warrant, a death sentence for him. For his friends, his brothers. He can't breathe and yet his lungs continue to scream for oxygen as his mind is overcome by the black, oppressive cloud of blood soaked guilt. Why hadn't he died on the barricade, if he knew that it would end like this? Why? Why hadn't he died like Bahorel and Bossuet, like Jehan and Joly, like Eponine Thenardier and countless others who expired whilst fighting for the pure white freedom of his beloved Patria? Why? Unwelcome tears prick painfully at the back of his eyelids and he blinks them back, refusing to lose himself in the dark, comforting well of emotion that he continuously struggles to supress.

She swallows and gazes round at them all, sorrow branded like fire on her pale, oval face. 'I'm so sorry. So sorry… Papa…' She hiccups and passes her free hand over her eyes, squeezing them shut so they can't see her tears. Silence falls as the glass is shattered. They have to leave. Leave before it is too late. He glances over at Combeferre, whose eyes are huge behind his spectacles. And yet how can they? Where can they go? Vaguely he remembers hearing something about a house on the Rue Plumet but he can't imagine what might happen if… If… The sound of Grantaire's voice brings him spiralling back into reality as he tries desperately to shake off the cloud of black thoughts pressing painfully at the corners of his brain.

'How can we leave Mademoiselle?' His voice is dark with anxiety as he throws a terrified look at him, the invalid in the bed; immovable and yet so dear to the cause that they have to find a way to get him out of danger. 'We can't move Enjolras', he glances over at Combeferre whose face is set; his eyes suddenly hard behind the spectacles. 'On no account will you move him before he is well enough. It's too risky R, far too risky.' The silent statement floats through the air that is thick with tension and the others nod. He feels a hand grip his shoulder and looks up to see Courfeyrac gazing down at him, a look of deepest sympathy etched on his pale, freckled face. 'I know how hard this is for you Mon Ami. I know you'll hate us afterwards, but it's for the best. Truly. We'll get you out of here. I promise. ' If there even is an afterwards, he thinks; suddenly bitter. The voices downstairs have multiplied since he last paid any attention to them. He thinks he can hear his mother and possibly Adrienne, but he doesn't know. He shoots a look at Grantaire, who is watching Cosette with a guarded expression. And then, suddenly, out of nowhere he can hear Monsieur Frauchlevent. His voice carries up the stairs and through the half open door with such clarity that he can barely repress a shiver of terrified anticipation from charging up his spine.

'I assure you Monsieur; I have no recollection of seeing this boy. None at all. I have no sympathies with the revolutionaries…' His head turns at the sound of a door being slid shut and the patter of bare feet on the stairs as Cosette flees the room. He hears her voice dancing through the silence, carefully balanced as she acts the part of the gracious, naive hostess slipping gracefully down the stairs to meet her father and their guests; delicately asking whoever is downstairs the subject of this untimely call. Feuilly's hand tightens on his shoulder as he hears the sharp reply and deep, country accent of Toussaint as she bustles onto the stage; evidently confused and angry at this disturbance. He would smile if it weren't so serious. He hears footsteps on the stairs again as Courfeyrac leaves Gavroche and crosses the room to answer the door. His feet sound unnaturally loud in the silence as he turns the handle and pulls the door open for the newest arrivals.

'René?' It is his mother. Her face is pale and frightened as she crosses the room in two long strides and drops to her knees beside his bed. She is already dressed except her hair, blonde like his, which falls in a mane of pale gold down her back. Her blue eyes scan his face; wide with compassionate concern as she takes his hand and squeezes it. He squeezes it back and tries to ask her what all the fuss is about, but the question is answered before he can form the words. 'We're going away. All of us. Monsieur Frauchlevent has arranged a passage for us to England.' She tries to smile as a long, pale hand caresses his cheek; her nimble fingers icy cold. He returns the gesture, but looks past her; towards Adrienne who has slipped in behind her and is talking in a hurried whisper to Grantaire. Snatches of conversation float in his direction, but he ignores them. His eyes wander to Combeferre who looks shocked. England? His round dark eyes seem to say. England?! He wants to say something, but doesn't know what. What can he say?


	3. Chapter 3

Footsteps have started on the stairs again. Silence falls. A silence that is so thick with oppressive, apprehensive tension that it is hard to breathe. The sound of the door being opened and bare feet pattering across the wooden floorboards. Cosette is back. Over her arm she has a mêlée of darkly coloured cloaks and pairs of boots swinging haphazardly from their laces clutched in a fist. Nine pairs of startled eyes scan her as she moves towards the bed and deposits her load on the ottoman at its foot. Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second and he can see that she means to get them to safety. He can see it in the large, black pupils, the blue irises; each strand taught with determination. Silently she begins to hand out her wares, shaking out the rough cloth like a wool merchant wanting to make the best impression possible to potential buyers. He watches his friends silently take their cloaks; swinging them up and over their shoulders before accepting their boots. She reaches him last, after helping Gavroche tie his laces; flashing him a tired, tight smile as she bends down to do the knots; whispering to the gamin that she will teach him how to do his own later on. When they are safe. In England. The word seems foreign in his mouth as he tries it out; testing the odd vowel sounds on his tongue like a wine taster. Angleterre. How will life differ in England to France? And will they really be safe? Truly? He glances across at his Mother who is watching Cosette and Adrienne as they move among his friends like silver swans; silently graceful as they reach the bed. 'It will be alright my darling', she reaches over and strokes his cheek, fingertips lightly brushing the pale, slightly flushed skin. He clutches her nimble fingers in his and brings her hand to his lips, brushing a blissfully brief kiss on her tight knuckles, the colour slowly ebbing as the blood floods to the base of the skin.

'Don't leave me'. His voice is barely a choked whisper as he releases her hand and lets it fall back onto the snowy white coverlet. 'Please Maman, please don't'. He gazes up into her face and sees to his horror that her bright blue eyes are swimming with a sliver lake of salty tears. She shakes her head and leans over to kiss him, to hold him like she did when he was a child and had had a nightmare about… About what? He can't remember. It was all so long ago and still she holds him, rocking him gently as he buries his head into her chest and tries to bite back unwelcome tears. He can't remember the last time he cried. Not properly. But now he does, sobbing silently into the warm security of her bosom, weeping for his lost friends, his lost life. 'It's my fault', the words are barely audible through the cloth and for that he is glad. 'It's all my fault. If I hadn't….' He feels her hands on his face, long fingers cupping themselves around his quivering chin as she brings his face to hers; forcing him to look directly into her eyes. Silver tears stain her beautiful, porcelain skin as she shakes her head and kisses him again, one hand reaching up to brush away a stray lock of blond hair out of his eyes as she tries to smile. He can feel Combeferre's eyes on him as he tries to pull himself together because he knows that is what they expect of him. He is their leader, he knows that. A leader, a compatriot, a friend, a judge and a jury, a lover, a father, a brother… He has to be strong for them. He has to lead them; lead them away from this blood soaked horror and into the cool calmness of freedom because if he can't, then who can?

'Hush René, I'm here.' The soft, comforting purr of his mothers' voice brings him slowly back into reality. He can feel moisture on his face; a cold salty lake of tears that have fallen without his knowledge; soaking her skin. He blinks them back, refusing to succumb to the soft, dark well of emotion that is tugging tantalizingly at the corners of his brain. There are footsteps on the stairs again. He hears someone cross the room, feet newly shod in Cosette's boots and pull the door open. A candle flickers into life as the round, plump figure of Toussaint emerges from the shadows; her soft, lined face half hidden in darkness as she moves into the interior of the room. She stands in silence for seconds that feel like hours before Cosette rushes to her, drawing her into the fray, her hands shaking with anticipation as she motions for Grantaire to shut the door. He does so carefully, his expression unreadable before returning to his chair underneath the bookshelf. 'Is everything alright? Toussaint… Please…. 'Cosette's words fall in a disjointed heap as she watches the calm, motherly face; desperate for answers. Gavroche shrinks in beside Courfeyrac, clutching at the corner of his cloak, suddenly afraid. He feels his mother slowly disentangle herself from the bedclothes and rise, all comforting warmth evaporating as she makes her way carefully towards Cosette. His eyes are still blurred with unshed tears and he blinks them back, wanting to understand, knowing that time; precious time is slipping through their fingers like water in cupped hands and there is nothing they can do about it.

'Monsieur is going to take you to the docks by carriage.' Toussaint smiles at Cosette who visibly relaxes; her once erect form slumping into the soft, white linen of her nightgown. 'He says…' She pauses and clears her throat before continuing; evidently trying to remember each instruction to its smallest detail. 'He says that you… He says that you will go in groups.' She pauses, waiting for her words to sink in. He can feel confusion radiating like fire from Combeferre and Courfeyrac as they stare at Toussaint in disbelieving horror. He knows what they are thinking and his heart goes out to them, flying on silver wings across the stuffy, stifled room. 'If we go, we go together. No-one's getting left behind. Not this time. We've already lost so much…' Unknown fingers tighten on his shoulder and he looks up to see Grantaire staring down at him with a look of deepest compassionate concern etched on his dark features; although how he got from the bookshelf to the bed is anyone's guess. Slowly, he reaches out his free hand that isn't bound by the sling and grips the trembling fingers; trying to squeeze some reassurance into the tense, taught digits that feel as if they have been turned to stone. He can almost taste the heartbreak that is radiating from the large, dark eyes as the thick fingers fumble in his palm; desperate for safety, for security. 'It is too dangerous to go together', Combeferre's mouth is opened in disbelief; ready to argue but Toussaint cuts across him; her usually soft, calm, country accent now biting and raw with urgency. 'Now is not the time for arguing. We must make all haste if your friend wants to be safe, if you want to safe. Surely you see that?' Finally, he does and closes his mouth, brow still furrowed, eyes narrowed behind wide lenses as he tries to understand.

'But…' Feuilly's sentence hangs in the spiralling tension; hangs for a fraction of a second and then falls; silenced by a look from Grantaire who looks unnaturally sober for this hour of the night. Or is it morning? He doesn't know. He lost track of time long ago. Feuilly shoots an anxious glance over to the bed but the boy inside it shakes his head.' Leave it Mon Ami. Please. Don't argue. We need to get through this together. We will get through this together, I promise you.' Silence falls. A heavy, impenetrable silence that smothers everything in a thick, perverted embrace. Nobody speaks. Nobody moves. It is hard to tell whether any breath is exhaled as they turn to him. Ten expectant faces ready and waiting for instructions. His mouth is suddenly dry, laid barren by the overwhelming tidal wave of fear that has suddenly crashed over him, engulfing him for the second time in a bath of ice cold sweat. Beneath the thin, cotton night shirt he can feel his whole body shaking and doesn't like it. Doesn't like the feeling of utter hopelessness that has washed over him, leaving him stranded on this strange barren island of nothingness. He feels his eyes slip shut and welcomes the blackness of the space behind his shattered eyelids; the cool, velvety darkness of oblivion that in his feverish delirium was impossible to find. He needs to think and yet any rational thought is impossible in this feverish heat of tense anticipation. From somewhere, he doesn't know where, he can hear someone calling his name; a soft whisper of a word that floats unheeded through the sticky air that is thick with body odour, sweat and fear.

''Jolras?' He feels the warm, soft weight of a body slowly clambering up onto the bed and moving itself slowly to nestle into his chest; carefully avoiding the sling. He feels the rough mop of hair thrusting itself under his chin, as small hands envelope him into an embrace; nails digging painfully into his ribs. 'I won't leave you 'Jolras.' The sweet alto voice is choked with emotion as the body continues to bury itself deeper into the thin fabric of his nightshirt. Biting back tears, he wraps his good arm around the gamin's shuddering shoulders and clumsily pulls him closer; drinking in the soft, strange smell of lavender soap that clings to his frame; as tightly as the dirt and shit from the streets of Paris that had once gave him a second skin.

'It'll be alright Gavroche', his voice is little more than a whisper as he places a soft kiss on the mop of dirty blond hair; silently thanking God that this gamin, this beacon of hope, this ball of unsurpassable energy, this model of what they had been willing to give their lives for has survived the blood soaked horror of the barricade. He just hopes that he will survive the unknown terrors that no doubt await them in the sleep shrouded streets of Paris. _But then again, he reasons to himself, this is Gavroche; he is the streets, the child puppet master of San Michel, if anyone can survive it's him… Please… Please God, let him survive… Please…_


	4. Chapter 4

There are footsteps on the stairs again. Automatically he tightens his grip on Gavroche's shivering shoulders and glances over at Combeferre who is watching the door with a wary, almost haunted expression on his fine, dark features. A short, sharp knock shatters the silence and Toussaint goes to answer it, closely followed by Cossette; whom he has almost forgotten about. She has been wrapped in Marius's embrace and slowly extricates herself from his clutching hands, half walking, half running towards the door as it is pushed open to reveal Monsieur Frauchlevent. He looks exhausted, his eyes huge in the candlelight; the soft, fleshy skin caressed by soft blue-black bruising. His complexion looks almost grey as he slowly makes his way into the room, to be met by Cosette pulling him into a fierce embrace; her bare feet flying over the wooden floorboards. 'Cosette?' His voice is little more than a hoarse whisper as he pulls her away from him and surveys her pale, drained face. He looks almost surprised as he takes in the nine faces watching him, waiting for the next move in this constantly changing chessboard of life. 'Cosette, what is the matter?' She doesn't answer him, simply pulls him closer, refusing to let him go. Tenderly he unwraps himself from her grip and turns to face the room at large; taking in the nine, pale, expectant faces that survey his every move; watching, waiting.

'I have a fiacre waiting at the back door. The driver is an old friend, we can trust him', each word is slow and deliberate; scraping painfully against his tongue. 'The police…' He glances at the boy in the bed who is watching him with wide eyes and the same haunted expression worn by his compatriots. It is an odd look, an old look which speaks of horrors that no man should ever witness. He can see the instinctive tightening of the boys' fingers on the curled form that has nestled itself on his lap and tries to smile. What lengths would he go, this boy, to bring his friends to the cold, clear land of safety? These… These boys have seen things that no human should be subjected to and yet have still managed come out intact; whole and pure in their desperate bond to stay together. He swallows. Closing his eyes, he welcomes the temporary darkness of the space behind his eyelids; as he tries to put into words what he knows must be said. They have to know. They have a duty to know. For themselves, for their fallen friends, for France even. 'The police are still after you', he says heavily; his tired eyes fixed on Enjolras, who doesn't even flinch at his gaze, simply stares calmly back with those large, piercing eyes of brightest blue. He hates himself for saying it. Hates himself for bringing back the very thing that these brothers are trying to desperately to escape from. But it has to be said. 'I tried to reason with them but they say they have evidence that they can and will hold against you. ' Cosette utters a cry of anguish as he nods sadly at her, silently apologetic as she rushes back to the safety of Marius; who draws her close, whispering sweet nothings into her ear as she silently sobs into his chest. He was wrong to doubt their love, he thinks sadly as he watches Marius carefully support his angel child towards the only vacant chair, his footsteps slow and deliberate as he tries not to aggravate his own wounds. He knows now that he will look after her with just as much compassion as he did, when she was little more than a frightened, abused, waif like child with huge eyes and that hauntingly permanent expression of fear and neglect etched on her elfin features. He hopes he does. She deserves all the compassion he can give, the little orphaned girl whom he rescued from the cold, dark woods of loss and neglect. He hopes that he will give her that much. Adrienne stumbles blindly over to Grantaire, who draws her close; his hands shaking slightly as he presses her trembling form to his chest. Only Madame Enjolras is still, holding his gaze with those clear blue eyes; which are exact replicas of the ones that stare out of the pale, pinched face rising from the white expanse that covers the bed.

'Can we go together Monsieur?' Enjolras's voice seems unnaturally loud in the silently echoing room as he glances painfully round at his friends who watch him with wide eyes. The words seem strange on his tongue, as if he hasn't spoken clearly for hours. He tries to sit up, ignoring the painful screams of his protesting muscles, ignoring Courfeyrac's warning, steadying hand on his shoulder, but in doing so collapses back against the headboard; exhausted. It is too much. Much too much and yet he knows that he must go on. He has to go on. For all their sakes. Without warning he thinks of Joly and what he would say if he could see him now; their glorious, golden leader reduced to little more than a shadow of his former self, trapped inside a battered body that is incapable of doing even the simplest thing for himself. What would Joly say if he knew how much he had failed? Failed the people, failed France. Failed everyone. Everyone he cares about. He hates it. Hates the continuous, nagging feeling of dependence that claws at his useless body; hates the fact that it is because of him that so many lives are now at risk, when they have all just been saved. No. Not all of them. What about Joly? Bossuet? Bahorel? Jean Provaire? Eponine Thenardier? And the students. Countless other nameless students who had joined his cause, students who are little more than unnamed, unloved corpses; lost forever in the confused, blood soaked melee of battle. They could have stayed away, he thinks bitterly. He had told them that much, begged with them but they refused. Told him that this was not just his fight; this fight was a fight that should be fought by and for the whole world. A fight for freedom that had meant to be fought with words, not weapons. Words. Useless words. Empty words. And what were they now, those boys who had rallied so valiantly to the scarlet Liberty flag? They were corpses. Corpses that will only be remembered by the cobbles that soaked up their scarlet sacrifice. Who will remember them if he doesn't? Remember those little lives that Fate had so cruelly bundled up and made ready to be trimmed before their time? Those little lives that were now lost… 'Remember us, Mon Ami. We will remember you', Joly's blurred profile seems to swim before his shattered eyelids; the thin, pale face with that permanent expression of worry, the mop of dark hair falling into eyes the colour of autumn leaves…

Unknown to the others he sees the man's last moments on the top of the barricade playing out in some sick version of the fever dreams that have so recently plagued him from the so called safety behind his eyelids. _Joly, kneeling down beside a dying Bossuet, although he doesn't know it yet; their fingers entwined as he tries to hold onto that flickering flame of luckless life; large, hazel eyes swimming with silver tears as he tries desperately to remain calm._ He remembers seeing a steady stream of stinking scarlet seeping from the dark hole of a bayonet wound in the bald man's abdomen and wishing that by some miracle it would be possible for Joly could find the time to patch him up. But there had been no time… He had been drawn away by a desperate cry that could have Courfeyrac; could have been anyone, for all he remembers. He just wishes… Just wishes that he could have… _Oh Joly…. Bahorel… Bossuet… Jehan… Eponine… All of you… I'm sorry… So sorry…_ The names are like knives to his shattered self; silver blades plunging in and slowly piercing his weeping, broken heart, relishing in his silent screams… 'Enjolras!' He can feel pressure on his shoulders, pressure that wasn't there before. His head lolls painfully, as if his neck cannot support his weight. He feels his body topple forwards, hears a cry of pain and surprise as capable hands catch him in a clutching embrace. He feels his shoulders shaking under the weight of supressed sobs as he buries his head into the unknown chest; unable to control the overpowering tidal wave of emotion that is threatening to overwhelm him. 'Ssh, Enjolras, it's alright, it's going to be alright…' Combeferre. If Combeferre is here, then… Then everything is alright… It has to be… His thoughts seem sluggish and unresponsive as he feels his head nestle deeper into the hard, dependable chest of his closest friend; never wanting to let go.

'It's my fault, 'Ferre', the words are muffled in the fabric of Combeferre's cloak as he desperately tries to hold back the tidal wave of unsurpassable emotion that is threatening, yet again; to overwhelm him. _Why does he have to be so weak?_ 'I should have…' The words are stuck in his throat and he has to choke them out, only to let them fall unheeded as he is pulled tighter into 'Ferre's fierce hold. He feels large, rough, capable fingers cup his chin and tilt his face upwards into the light. He blinks, the sudden transition from impenetrable darkness to the flickering half-light thrown by the guttering candles burning his retinas. An exhausted face which is pale with worry and yet tight with compassionate determination stares back into his; dark eyes behind misty spectacles balanced perilously on a long, slightly snub nose full of an adoration that he hardly knew existed before he met his closest friend.

'Don't talk like that Enjolras, do you hear me?' His voice is tight with emotion as he shoots a worried glance over at Monsieur Frauchlevent who is gazing out of the window at a city shrouded in sleep. From his bed, he can just make out the distant bobbing light of a fiacre rattling down a cobbled street by the river; the horses' hooves echoing eerily through the still, heady night air. How much time do they have left? He doesn't know, doesn't want to know. He can feel the eyes of his friends on him; wide, frightened eyes staring out of tense bodies that should be dead to the world. It's his fault. All his fault. If he hadn't been so recklessly passionate about a dying cause then maybe… If he hadn't caught them up in a dead dream that had been snuffed out before it had even had the chance to ignite and burn then maybe…Maybe what? Joly and Bossuet would still be alive? Alive and ready to pack off somewhere warm down in the south with Muschietta? Would he still be in Amiens, living in the large, old family house that had been in the Enjolras family for generations; living the cossetted, brightly coloured life of a young, eligible gentleman instead of lying in an unknown bed with shattered limbs and a life now hanging by a single heartbeat? What is he hoping for? For Bahorel to stumble through the door; large, plain face alight with happiness as he greets his friends; huge hands almost suffocating little Gavroche as he swings the gamin up onto his shoulder with that deep, rumbling, infectious laugh of his that made him think of well matured wine in oak barrels? For Bossuet to come in tripping over his feet and promptly break a mirror before letting out his usual string of colourful curses and continue to reprimand him for leaving them behind? For Jehan; poor, innocent, romantic Jehan to come in laughing and bursting with a new sonnet about a weeping violet that he saw on the roadside? Guilt ridden hatred rises up in his parched throat like vomit. He had been a child for God's sake! A child of eighteen, the baby of his friends; their little mascot with the huge puppy dog eyes, the colour of melting honey and a voice that could make angels weep… Why? Such a little life. Such a little life that had so much vibrant potential and yet Fate had thought it fitting to have it snapped short by a chorus of bayonets glinting in the weak, June dawn. Oh God… Oh Jehan…

'Apollo' Painfully pulling himself away from 'Ferre's embrace he looks over to see Grantaire watching him with a look that could almost make him weep if he had any more space for tears. He is not Apollo though. He is not a God. Why can't they see that? If nothing else he is a broken leader, a broken human who is standing in the shattered remains of a failed revolution, a failed dream and not knowing where to start picking up its' jagged pieces. The dark eyes of the cynic are unnaturally large as he surveys his God from behind Courfeyrac's chair, where he is cradling a wide eyed Gavroche to his chest, whispering sweet nothings into the gamin's hair as he watches Enjolras warily. 'We wouldn't dream of leaving you behind.' R's voice is unnaturally serious as he glances over at Feuilly, Marius, Courfeyrac and Combeferre who nod fervently from their perches by the door and beside the bed. A rush of undiluted emotion wells up inside him as he watches Grantaire slowly extricate himself from Adrienne, placing a brief kiss on the top of her head and move slowly across the cluttered floor space towards the bed. Dropping to his knees, he pulls out a scrap of parchment from his jacket pocket that has been folded into quarters. The paper itself is thin with much thumbing, the corners fraying slightly as Grantaire presses it into his hand.

'R?' He can't keep the confusion from tugging at the end of the question as he watches his friend exchange a swift, knowing look with Feuilly; who smiles despite himself and shrugs. 'Open it later', Grantaire whispers, so only he can hear. He nods and glances over at Monsieur Frauchlevent who has been watching the procedures with a small smile tugging at cold lips.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Yes! I've found out how to do author's notes! :) This chapter is dedicated to Sarahbob who has been brilliant at making me realise that I should keep on posting these chapters! Again: I am not male, French or living in C18th Paris- so PLEASE don't sue me! I am merely trying to consolidate my love of Enjolras/Combeferre into something cohesive- enjoy!**

He can hear footsteps on the stairs again and the sound of a woman's voice calling anxiously from outside the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Marius rise to answer it, but Cosette keeps a hand on his arm; silencing his silent protest with a look that seems odd in those calm, courageous brown eyes. He glances over at his Mother who smiles reassuringly at him; and turns back towards the bed, where unbeknownst to him, she has been folding clean linen into a frayed carpet bag that is open at her feet. It will be alright René. I promise. We'll get out of this together. He swallows painfully and glances back towards the door. It is propped open; a sliver of golden light spilling into a small puddle through the crack. He can just make out Toussaint's wide, weathered face lit up from the flickering, guttering light of a candle; whose light leaps and dances in the darkness. Fractured fragments of conversation flutter through air that is thick with tension as she addresses the room at large in an urgent, carrying whisper. Something about a fiacre… A ship bound for England that was ready to sail on the next fair tide… Bodies rise at her words that his sluggish, unresponsive brain has barely had time to process. Courfeyrac cradles a now sleeping Gavroche in his arms; the gamin's body now limp with exhaustion as he moves towards the door. Silently, he passes his precious cargo over to Toussaint, who smiles indulgently down at the sleeping bundle of life in her arms. Has she ever had children? He thinks in the silence as he watches Cosette support Marius over to the door, her arm placed firmly on his shoulder; their eyes filled with such adoration for each other that he has to smile. What else can he do? It was wrong for him to try and force Marius to join his revolution, he knows that now. Wrong for him to even consider placing the boy through such horrors as the ones they witnessed during those fateful hours that seem like a distant nightmare now; lurking in the dark recesses of his brain, biding their time before springing on him when he is at his most vulnerable.

'Enjolras? We need to get you out', he glances up to see 'Ferre's face inches from his own; the large brown eyes drooping with tiredness behind the spectacles. He tries to smile at his friend, tries to say something, tries to apologise for all the pain and grief he has caused him, caused them; but can't find the words. They seem to be stuck; like so many things in this strange, new world that does not have the scarlet comfort of the revolution for him to fall back onto. 'Madame?' He feels the soft weight of his mother slowly pressing into his side as she raises the coverlet from around his legs. He feels himself tense slightly as the cold cuts through the thin fabric of his trousers as Combeferre slowly encourages him to sit upright. 'That's it,' a sudden spasm of nausea grips him so hard that he has to bite his tongue in order to stop himself from vomiting all over his best friend as he calmly moulds his weak, useless body into a sitting position.

Without warning the world lurches painfully and he is suddenly teetering on the edge of a huge expanse of nothing; balancing perilously on his injured leg. Desperately, he tries to choke back the steadily rising torrent of acidic bile surging like fire up his parched throat; but can't. The world seems to turn a full circle and he is still left there; choking on his own vomit, retching on thin air as something cold is pressed to his lips. 'Drink this René,' a stern bite of panic has entered his Mothers' voice as he feels her cold hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging through the thin fabric of his shirt; steadying him. He feels the icy, metallic bite of metal on his lips as something warm gushes through his burning throat. He splutters at the unwelcome, fiery taste mixed with a bitter something that he vaguely remembers and tries to spit it out with as much fury and contempt as his weakened self can muster; but someone has firm grip on his jaw and forcefully makes him swallow the vicious concoction. A voice filters weirdly through the silence, a voice that is caught up with his own thoughts and makes no sense. Why are they doing this to him?_ Surely 'Ferre of all people… I'm sorry Enjolras. So sorry, but it's for the best. We'll be with you, don't worry._ Dimly, the taste reminds him of the time Grantaire and Courfeyrac had managed to get him drunk on Nicolette's best Absinthe; one bitterly cold night in December during their first year at the University, when the revolution was little more than a foetus; steadily growing in the dark recesses of his brain. Soft voices caress his head as he feels himself being moved from bed to chair; the world now coated in a grey, oddly comforting blanket of unreality. Even the fiery, numbing pain does not feel so bad now. Capable hands work quickly around him as he floats, unconcerned in the grey blankness brought on by the potent cocktail of Absinthe and Laudanum; ignorant of everything except the knowledge that they really are trying to get him out of danger. Get him out of France alive. If he were able to speak coherently, he knows that he would tell them; right at the minute, how much he loves them. All of them; even Grantaire. Tentatively, he tries to form words; but his tongue lolls painfully in a barren mouth; sluggish and unresponsive.

'Easy Enjolras, don't speak,' he can hear the fear tugging at Combeferre's voice as he feels his arm being tugged over an unknown shoulder and the sensation of trying to walk. Explosions of pain shoot up his shattered leg as it drags painfully across the ground and he has to bite his tongue to stop himself from crying out as the fiery agony threatens to consume him. His legs won't obey him as he feels his knees buckle under the steadily growing fire that is lapping joyously at the weakness of his steadily breaking body.

Desperately, he tries to cry out again, for once ignoring the ice cold mask of prideful disdain that has been in place for so long and is now slipping… Slipping… 'I…. 'Ferre… Maman….' The words fall in a disjointed heap at his feet as he tries to ignore the continuously roaring pain that surges up and down his shattered limbs. How much longer will he have to endure this torture? He doesn't know. He doesn't know anything anymore except for the fact that he wants this to be over. All of it. He wants to be back in the bed with 'Ferre and Feuilly at his side, knowing that they are safe. Knowing that they are all safe and not running away like wanted criminals from a force they can only guess the power of. What will happen if…. If… He doesn't want to think about it and yet he can't help himself. It crashes over him like a breaker on the beaches down at Marseilles when he was recovering from measles aged eight and the doctor had prescribed sea air as part of the recovery process. A large, black, blood splattered wave of fear and grief that claws at him, chokes him until he is silently screaming for a release that he knows will never come. Not now. The icy night air cuts through his drugged self like a knife through cloth as all the breath is ripped from his screaming lungs. He feels himself stumble on the strange, hard surface beneath his feet and collide painfully into Combeferre who hauls him upwards without a word; silently whispering words of comfort and encouragement all the while. 'That's it Enjolras, we're nearly there, it's going to be alright; I promise…'

But is it? He wishes he could have more faith in his best friend but it is impossible. All he wants is to be safe. For his friends to be safe. Is that too much to ask? He doesn't know. He has never really believed in God before, despite his parents' compulsory enforcement of him into the church Choir aged eight, after the measles episode. It had been for the best, they said. He had spent most of his recovery time holed up in the dark, sunless nursery and had come out a pale, thin imitation of his former self. He needed the company of boys his own age, they had said. It had really been his fathers' doing, he remembers that now. His father whom he hasn't seen since he first moved to Paris, three years ago. _His formidable father, Monsieur Antoine Enjolras who believed that he should leave his book learning for effeminate pansies and give up his radical ideals for a life in the Army. A stint over in England possibly or fighting the Russians in the cold, bleak swamplands of the Crimea that would knock some sense into him, if he wasn't killed by a Cossack sabre first …. He remembers a huge, candlelit room… The twinkling crash of shattered glass… Wine running like blood, trickling sickingly through a smashed, Venetian glass decanter; seeping through the antique oak table that had been in the family for generations… Raised voices… The sound of a girl crying in the corner… His sister? He can't remember. He hasn't seen Henriette or 'riette as he used to call her when he was still a lisping child for years. Not since her marriage when he was twelve and she was eighteen… She would be twenty three now… His mothers' pleas drowned out by a thunderous, bear-like roar… The maid, a terrified mouse like creature whom he liked talking to whenever he was sure that his Father couldn't hear scurrying in with wide eyes, trying to clear up the wreckage, before she too became an innocent victim of his father's vicious, uncontrollable rages…_

'René? We're here'. The sound of his mothers' voice mingled with the biting cold and the snorting stamp of impatient horses clamping at their bits cuts through his drugged reverie like a knife. He blinks as Combeferre's face swims weirdly through his shattered vision; pale and exhausted and yet still filled with that determination that makes his heart twist. Pale, exhausted faces peer out from the dark window, lit up from guttering candles, perilously perched in dusty brackets. Courfeyrac. Grantaire. Feuilly. Gavroche. Marius. Combeferre. Cosette. Adrienne. Monsieur Frauchlevent. Toussaint. There should be four more faces there, he thinks bitterly in the silence. Four little lives that barely had the chance to live. Why? Why was life so bitterly unfair?

'Have you got him?' Monsieur Frauchlevent's voice is sharp with anxious concern as he pushes open the door and bends slowly to pull down the short flight of steps. He feels Combeferre's hands under his armpits, steadily supporting him up the steps; his injured leg still refusing to take his weight. Voices welcome him, caress his aching head as he feels a warm weight shift up and allow him space to sit. He doesn't want to sit. He wants to sleep. He craves sleep; a deep, uninterrupted sleep, where he can be secure in the knowledge that they are still with him. Hands caress his body as he feels his Mother sink gracefully down beside him; a cold hand clutching at his own. He blinks and tries to smile at her; trying to reassure her that he is fine. She knows that he is not, he knows that. Something small and warm presses into his side and he glances down to see the slightly blurred profile of Gavroche staring up at him; blue eyes wide in the guttering lamplight.

'You alright Apollo?' He wishes he was, but truthfully? His head hurts; a throbbing, persistent ache that thunders through his blank brain like a herd of stampeding horses. Everything aches. He tries to smile down at the gamin who is looking up at him with a mixture of awestruck wonder and concern etched on his pale freckled face; but finds that he can't. His muscles don't seem to want to work anymore and he is tired… So tired… When will this night end? Or has it already ended? He doesn't know. Time makes no sense now as the driver whips the frozen, excitable horses into a brisk trot. His head lolls painfully onto his chest as hands catch his slowly falling body and lie him onto a seat that smells of mould, old leather, antique perfume and sweat. Thick, nimble fingers that make him think of Grantaire, entwine themselves into his hair as a deep voice tells him that it will all be alright. 'Go to sleep Enjolras. That'll help, or at least, 'Ferre says it will. We'll still be here when you wake up. It's alright, I'm here. I won't leave you Apollo'. But he can't sleep however much he wants to. His whole body feels tense; too tense and he can't settle as the fiacre jolts itself into rumbling, sickening motion. His shattered limbs ache from the unknown journey from the room to the fiacre and his mouth is still burning from Combeferre's lethal concoction of Absinthe and Laudanum. Blearily, he looks up at the pale face flickering in and out of the jolting lamplight and tries once again to smile, to give some indication that for now at least; he is alright. That they really shouldn't worry about him. That they should try and get some rest; that they had already done so much for him already. But he knows they won't. He knows that they won't rest until they are as far away from Paris and all memories of the last fateful days as they can possibly be before they can really think about letting him go. And for that he is thankful. He needs them and it is only now when he is at his most vulnerable does he realise just how much. Nestling his head further into Grantaire's comforting bulk, he finally allows himself to succumb to the jolting rocking rhythm of the fiacre and let himself be lost to a disjointed sleep.

**A/N: Please R and R- I really would like some feedback on this story as a whole (not just this chapter but that would help! Constructive critisim welcome- give me anything: suggestions etc are love!)**


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: Another chapter for all the brilliant followers/ reviewers that have given this story some time- thank you, it means the world to think that my work is appreciated! Disclaimer: As I am not French, male or living in C18th Paris how can I possibly own Les Miserables? Please don't sue me, I am simply trying to place my love for the barricade boys into some cohesive structure! **_

'Open up!' He is dreaming. _Dreaming that he is back on the Barricade and is staring down the dark hole of a bayonet chorus that are glinting menacingly in the cold June dawn. Dreaming that he is standing in his scarlet jacket and black trousers; watching in disbelieving horror as his dreams are slowly unpicked until they are nothing more than scraps of scarlet blowing pitifully in the wind. Dreaming that… No… Not that… Please not that…_ 'In the name of His Majesty, the most Revered King Louis Philippe I, I command you to open up and present all passengers for a customs' inspection!' The dream is shattered as the heavy hand accompanying the harsh, clipped Parisian accent bangs on the door of the fiacre. A customs' inspection? What on earth? The words filter in a slow, disjointed jumble through his slowly awakening brain as he feels terrified hands shaking his shoulder. He shrugs them off, suddenly annoyed; and nestles further down in Grantaire's bulk; only to find that his head hits the rough, woollen cloth of a folded cloak that is still warm from his friends' now non-existent body. Why is he not there? Grantaire? Grantaire! Where are you? Fear laps at his throat, white hot and burning as he struggles to shrug off the thick, black cloak of sleep that has been thrown over his body. Dimly, he can hear frightened voices washing over him as hands slowly support his body as it unravels itself into wakefulness with painful slowness. He needs to know what on earth is going on. From somewhere he can hear voices; high pitched, terrified whispers as he struggles to sit up. Slowly Enjolras…

'Ferre?' His voice is little more than a harsh croak that rasps painfully across his burning, barren mouth as he tries to swallow. 'Ferre, what's going on?' Pale, terrified faces float weirdly through his vision and he blinks; desperate to see them; to reassure himself that they are alright. That nothing has happened. That they are together. 'What's happening?' He asks again, desperate for answers. He scans their faces, the wide eyed, terrified faces of men, no boys; they are not men; who have been through so much. They are all there; all the survivors, except from… No… Where is he? Where is Combeferre?! He feels a trembling hand on his shoulder and looks up to see Cosette sitting inches from him; her already pale, determined face blanched with fear. He feels a small, hot paw being slipped into his and squeezes it as she glances towards the door. Voices filter through the thick exterior of the fiacre, words that he can barely make out through the wood and the terrifyingly heat of fear that has enveloped the dark, lamp lit interior of this safe haven that they have at last reached. Two he knows and one he doesn't. He shoots a terrified glance at Courfeyrac, whose hands are wrapped around Gavroche who looks more scared than he has ever seen him; who nods slowly, his eyes wide and fearful. He turns the other way and sees his Mother clutching Adrienne's hand; her blues eyes wide as she listens to the heated conversation unfurling outside. He strains his ears to listen but even then can only just catch snatches that mean little sense to his confused and exhausted brain.

- 'I assure you Monsieur, we have nothing to hide. We are simply…' M. Frauchlevent.

-'Monsieur. I am sorry, but as a matter of state government…' Harsh, Parisian, official man. _He imagines him, standing tall and erect in the tricolour uniform of the National Guard with a bushy, brown moustache whose curled points have been oiled and teased to perfection and dark, serious eyes as he silently surveys the man and boy who stand before him; arms folded defiantly across frantically beating hearts. If this doesn't work…_

-'State government!' Combeferre. Contemptuous, passionate 'Ferre ready to stand his ground, ready to do anything and everything to save his friends. His heart goes out to him as he waits; hardly daring to breathe; each thudding iamb seeming to last a thousand years. 'Messieurs, please…' Oh 'Ferre, please don't do anything stupid… _And yet he can hear the passionate contempt in his best friend's voice; passion that only comes when Combeferre is in his element… Oh God…_

- 'Henri, please. Let me handle this._' M. Frauchlevent. The voice is full of forced icy calmness and he hopes… He silently prays…_'Monsieur; I beg you, please listen; my son and I are taking a trip to England to enhance my sons' studies in Philosophy and Literature. That is all. In practice we are not revolutionary sympathisers; but at University, my son… do you have children Monsieur?'

- 'I must apologise Monsieur, but I do not see the relevance of that question. I assure you, it is a simple procedure if you could just cooperate. Won't take five minutes, trust me. All I need are for your passengers to present themselves in person; so that names and occupations can be placed for future record in the state records…' His voice has taken on a pleading quality that grates painfully against his ear. _He throws a swift, searching look at 'Freyrac who shrugs; but he can just make out a distinct tightening of the thick fingers on Gavroche's jacket as he tries to restrain the furious bundle of energy from leaping out of the fiacre and giving the official a piece of his own mind._

'State records? Why on earth do they want records?' Feuilly's incredulous whisper cuts through the stifling atmosphere like a knife. Nobody answers him. Nobody moves. And yet the answer is so painfully clear… They know about him… About them… Of course… That inspector… Flickering, half formed images flood through his numb brain, images; memories that don't make any sense. And yet they do and he can't think why… Ice cold sweat erupts like lava on the back of his trembling hands as he waits; ears strained, the juddering iambs of his rapidly beating heart seeming impossibly loud in the silence. Ice cold fear crashes over him in a sudden, violent wave of painful panic and he feels the gooseflesh burst out on his shuddering skin. His breath comes out in ragged, painful gasps as his lungs crave oxygen; struggling fruitlessly against the steadily building barricade of ice cold terror that is threatening to overwhelm him as he tries to sit up. He has to get outside; despite the danger, despite the fact that he can barely stand, let alone walk unsupported. He has to know what's going on. He has to get to Combeferre before he does something reckless, lets his passion go to his head, says something thoughtless in a fit of passion fuelled pique, something that could … But no… Combeferre would never do anything stupid and yet… He knows that he has to protect his friend… It is his duty to protect him… He doesn't want to fail him like he failed the others, like he failed France… Not after everything…

'Enjolras!' Somehow he finds himself on his feet, wobbling painfully as he tries to get his injured leg to take his weight. Spasms of icy fire erupt through his battered body but he ignores them. External pain is nothing to the raging inferno of undiluted terror that has ignited inside him. He needs to get outside. He has to get outside. Has to find Combeferre before it is too late… Blurred shapes flicker in front of him as he feels unknown, unwanted hands press down on him, trying desperately to guide him back to his seat. He shrugs them off, his whole being suddenly thrown into a state of panicked, fearful fury as he struggles towards the door; ignoring them, ignoring everything, ignoring the fact that he is walking into his own grave… Hands and voices continue to press down on him, but he ignores it. Unknown words tumble from parched lips, words that leave a bitter taste in his mouth; but he can barely make out what he says, only just making the distinction that he is now alone and left to struggle towards the door unguided. He hobbles like a child taking its' first tentative steps, hands groping for the support of the fiacre walls and yet clutching on nothing but air that is thick with fear. Every step, every frantic thump of his rapidly beating heart seems to last a lifetime as he moves with painful slowness towards the door and the cold, clear reality of the outside world. Unknown hands try desperately once again to reach out to him, pleading with him in words that don't make sense. Nothing makes sense any more except for the fact that he has to get out. He has to be with 'Ferre.

'Apollo?' He feels the cold bite of the metal door knob beneath his sweat soaked palm before he has fully realised that he has reached the door. 'Apollo, please!' He shakes his head, determined not to look round at Grantaire's pale, terrified face. He can't look back, despite how much his brain screams at him to do so, rebuking his stubbornness with painful clarity. Instead he imagines R's eyes, dancing with a strange sober light through the dark recesses of his brain. Large, dark pleading eyes begging him, beseeching him not to go. 'We can't lose you too Enjolras. We've already lost so much. Please?' But what does it matter? What does it matter if they are all about to face the cold, dark eyes of death themselves? He would rather die than let them go through that hell all over again. His head aches with the sudden burst of energetic thought that his brain has processed and he has to close his eyes as his leg buckles suddenly, unable to take his weight any longer; spasms of pain roaring up the taught, broken skin as his head is suddenly filled by his silent screams of pain.

Choking down another sudden burst of fiery nausea which surges through his parched throat like an out of control fiacre hurtling down a packed street on a festival day; he leans his head onto the cool wooden shell of their haven and tries to listen; trying desperately to force his exhausted brain to make some sense of the unknown confusion that is unfolding outside. Another voice has joined that of M. Frauchlevent, Combeferre and the exasperated official. A voice that seems vaguely familiar, although he can't think where_… A large, plain face with cold, oddly calm grey eyes that stared back into his own without a hint of fear… A low, menacing voice that is tight with pain as it filters through the never ending, winding abyss of the sewers… White hot, fiery pain… Blood blooming from his multiple wounds; drenching him in a bath of his friend's scarlet sacrifice… Names… Words… Numbers… _He can't make sense of it and yet he knows he has to. Knows that he must do at least this much in memory of his fallen friends, for the survival of the ones who still remain stubbornly at his side. His shaking hand tightens unconsciously on the doorknob as he forces his weight against it; trying desperately to bite back the silent scream threatening to erupt from his throat as his body is once again consumed by the icy fire of pain obliterating any sense of reality from his shattered mind. Dimly he feels his steadily breaking body slump painfully against the closed door; his shaking, silently screaming limbs finally giving way as he collapses back into oblivion. 'Enjolras? 'Jolras, what is it?' Unwanted voices crash over him as he squeezes his eyes shut; welcoming the flickering darkness that makes up the space behind his eyelids. White hot, salty tears of pain, rage and fear prick painfully at the corners of his shattered lids and he lets them fall; welcoming the scalding pain, revelling in the fact that something is real in this strange, cold, grey world that he has been thrown into.

'René?' Dumbly he looks up to see his mother kneeling down beside his broken body; her face a mask of salty tears as she places a trembling hand to his cheek; tenderly thumbing away the salty lake of emotion pouring from his eyes. Wordlessly, he shakes his head and tries to shrugs her hand away; hating himself. She doesn't let go, simply holds him tighter; drawing him away from a reality that she knows he is not yet ready for. He feels himself slump into her waiting embrace, feels his head turn into her chest, feels her cool hands on his burning skin; as cold and as welcome as water is to a dying man, her cold lips sweetly brushing his forehead as she rocks him; whispering silent, nonsensical words of comfort into his sweat soaked hair as he desperately tries to listen for Combeferre and M. Frauchlevent. Desperately, silently praying that the silence that has enfolded the shocked world is not what he thinks it is. That they are safe… But the silence stills hangs over them, stubborn and immovable; a thick, impenetrable cloak of fear and guilt that wraps them up in a clutching, perverted embrace and silently refuses to let them go. Around him, he can almost taste the fear radiating from his friends as they watch him in wide eyed, shocked silence. An unknown body crouches down beside him and he feels a large, calloused hand slip itself silently into his quivering palm. He gives it a tight, reassuring squeeze as he catches the ghostly whiff of alcohol fluttering through the air as he slowly prises his face away from the safety of his mother to take a better look at his friend; hoping that he is still with them, that something of the normality that he craves is still with him. 'Apollo? Apollo, look at me'. For once he doesn't snort in annoyance at the cynic's use of his ridiculous nickname, but instead turns carefully towards the voice that is barely audible through the weight of the suppressed emotion that is pressing down on all of them. Grantaire's face is deathly pale in the guttering candlelight as they gaze into each other's eyes; drinking the other up, never wanting this moment to end. His eyes, though red rimmed are dry and wide with fear as he reaches up to tuck a strand of sweat soaked gold behind his lovers' ear. 'Don't do that again 'pollo', he whispers sternly; the rebuke choked with the emotion that he is so desperately to keep in check. 'Please? We can't lose you.'

He can't reply. There are words; there are always words; but they are so choked up in a waterfall of emotion that he can barely make any sense of them as they tumble through his brain; only to be cut short by a useless, lolling tongue that refuses to work. His eyes wander towards the locked door and to where; at last, at long last; he can hear the soft thud of footsteps approaching the fiacre. Reaching over, he gropes for Grantaire's hand and squeezes it; letting his eyes finally find his other friends who are watching the door with the same apprehensive, haunted expression branded like fire on their pale, exhausted faces. Faces that have seen too much. Faces that have been through too much and all for his sake. For a cause that died before it had even had a chance to live. How could he have been so stupid? So thoughtless?

_He thought he knew what he was doing; thought he understood the implications of his actions. Had thought that after all those endless nights holed up in the flickering darkness of the Café Musain that he had spent bent over countless maps and charts ; watching the ink unravelling into long spiels of ebony that danced across the crumpled yellow parchment; half hidden in the guttering shadow of a failing candle stub; that he would have got somewhere. That they had done enough. Of course they hadn't. The people knew better than he did, he realises that now. They had done the right thing, by barring their windows and locking their doors; refusing to believe that the chaotic carnage unfurling behind the safety of the wood was real. What chance had they had against the full might of the National Guard? They had not been trained in combat and the ammunition they had managed to get hold of through those agonizing hours spent bartering in the twisted world of the underground black market had been ruined by the rain that had swept through the streets of Paris like a sickle slicing through a wheat field at harvest time. What had been the point of it all? Had there really been any point? He doesn't know. Or had it merely been nothing more than the tantalizing dream of a bored school boy who wanted to be remembered? A dream that had been cut short before the flame had even had a chance to ignite?_

**_A/N: Please feel to read and review: I'm welcome to anything (constructive critisims etc) and suggestions! :) The next chapter may take some time because I have a lot of revision and am trying to write this as well as cut it for fanfiction so you know... but as they say, reviews are like chocolate so if I get a few then who knows? You may get another chapter coming in a few days time! Thanks again and much love x_**


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N: Contary to popular belief, I am now, after a LOT of drafting, able to present to you my next installement of When Tomorrow Came! As I am not male, French or living in C18th Paris, how can I possibly own Les Miserables? (Do I really need to go through that again?- I am simply trying to place my love for the Barricade Boys into some cohesive structure) Thanks again for all the lovely reviews and the fact that you my wonderful followers actually like this story- you have no idea how much it means to me! Enjoy x (Also this isn't Cosette/Enjolras- she's simply being Cosette and wanting to comfort everyone!)**_

The sound of hurried, anxious footsteps cuts through his reverie like a knife. Terror leaps up into his throat and he feels his eyes slip shut; as he tries to steel himself for the inevitable discovery. Tries to ready himself for the fiacre door to be yanked open and the rough hands to pull them forcefully out into the weak summer sunlight. For the cruel bite of rope on tender flesh, the agonizing crunch of metal on bone, before the brutal separation into cold, dark cells to await their fate. He is ready, he tells himself firmly. He can take anything they will throw at him. He will not allow himself to be defeated by them. He cannot let himself give into them. There is too much at stake. Too many lives are hanging in the balance and it is all because of him. It will be his fault if they die and he is ready to take the blame. Ready to accept the consequences of actions that at the time seemed so vitally important that he hardly cared what hand he was dealt. He cares now. Cares that it is because of him that they could all die, could die here and now; when death is the very thing that they are trying to escape from. He can feel eyes on his face and turns to see Feuilly watching him with wide, shocked eyes; his face paper white as he turns back to the door. He tries to smile, but finds that he can't, so he simply nods; thinking suddenly of his fallen friends and what they would say if they could see him now; the glorious, golden leader cornered like a wild beast with no way of escape. Painful hatred surges up his throat like fire and he coughs; the sound echoing eerily through the silent carriage; burning his already tender mouth.

_Bahorel's laugh rumbling through the packed Café as he jokes with Courfeyrac about his latest girl. Jehan's poetry spilling out from a body so young, so precious that it was hard to believe that he had even understood what they were fighting for. Joly's anxiety as he sits with one bare foot propped up next to a slumped Grantaire who is lost to the world, telling a forever patient Combeferre in frantic, whispered tones about the dangers of foot rot. Bossuet's witty sarcasm as he breaks yet another of Nicolette's glasses with Gavroche clinging to his shoulders as he piggybacks the gamin over to his cluttered table that is a mess of paper, charts and used ink bottles with the latest news from the streets. Eponine's large, pleading eyes gazing after Marius as he disappears into the night for the umpteenth time… _

The sound of a door slamming and the sudden pain of fingers squeezing his so hard it hurt; throws him into reality like a quick, painful twist to the wrist. He blinks, his shattered eyes momentarily blinded by the tantalizing glimpse of the outside world before the door slams itself back into safety. A pale, summer sun flickers faintly through ominous steel grey clouds which have enfolded the world in a thick, grey blanket of a bitter sea fog. The harsh, salty sweetness of the sea air makes his head spin as he glances down to see long, thin fingers clutching at his. His eyes wander upwards to see Cosette's pale, frightened yet determined face watching his; a mixture of fear and admiration etched in each delicate strand of grey blue in her wide eyes; which strangely do not look as if they are outwardly afraid. To him she looks brave. A strong, determined young woman who is ready to risk everything she knows and trusts for boys she has hardly met. Inexplicably, she makes him think of Henriette and the last time he saw her, standing in the cool pink dawn that had risen over the hedges of the grounds at the old house in Amiens on the day of her marriage to a well off Cavalry Officer in the King's Guard from Toulouse who was fighting over in England.

_She had been standing at the large, gilded bay window; her face reflected in the light pink gold dawn as the sun gracefully rose out its indigo bed to signal the start of a new day. A new life. He remembers feeling suddenly awkward as he stood in the dark doorway; gazing at the graceful, Grecian goddess whose hands had come to rest on the gilded lid of the old harpsichord which was horrendously out of tune and would only play if 'Riette tinkered Purcell's 'Dido and Aeneas' on it several times a day. He suddenly realised just how cold and silent the house would be if; no not if, when she left and couldn't bare it. He remembers unwelcome tears pricking painfully at the corners of his eyes and furiously trying to blink them back before she realised just how weak and wretched he would be without her. She was his rock whenever their Father mocked his fledgling revolutionary beliefs or lashed out at their mother for no reason and he could do nothing apart from hold her in a futile attempt to shield her from the ongoing, uncontrollable, relentless rages. She had been the one who had slipped into the dank, sunless nursery whilst he was recovering from measles and had slipped the bolt on his shutters with a wicked grin so that he could at last see the world shrouded by a soft, grey cloak of light, morning drizzle. She had been the one who had sat and debated with him about Robespierre and Danton's conflicting ideals when he had got a little stronger and had been able to sit outside on the white bench on the gravel terrace overlooking the sloping lawns and sprawling flower beds for a few hours at a time; before his parents had had him taken by carriage under the beady eye of his Tutor to his horrendous, compulsory Choir practice. She had been the one..._

'_Don't worry about me René. I'll be alright. The Captain,' (She never called him by his full name he had noticed, his innocent twelve year old brain suddenly puzzled. Why not?) 'The Captain is a good man, he will look after me. He has a large estate about two days ride from London. Imagine!' He couldn't though. Back then, London had just been the name of a fantasy city in distant Angleterre; nothing more. She had glided over to him then, floating over the polished Oak floorboards in a vision of white cotton and seed pearls; her blonde hair, a streaming golden waterfall tumbling carelessly down her back and kissed his burning cheek, thumbing away the streaks of unwelcome silver coursing down his face. I'll write to you mon Chérie. Yes? Please say yes, my darling. I'll miss you.' He had remained silent; gazing up into her calm, composed face, silently committing every feature of her angelic face to memory; and yet knowing that each time he thought of her, he would remember her in a different way. Knowing that he would never truly see her as 'Riette ever again, that she would soon become a married woman and would be Henriette; the paragon of the virtuous wife and mother. There would be no more pranks now, he saw that. No more heady summer days lying in the orchard under the trees, watching the sun slip silently in a blaze of bloody gold into the dark indigo horizon. No more trips into Amiens with picnic baskets and checked blankets, glass bottles full to the brim with ice cool eldeflower cordial and a deftly stolen bottle of Papa's best Burgandy... So he watched her, drinking her up, commiting each and every part of her face to memory; knowing that it would never be enough. Why did she have to leave him? Why now? Why had their parents consented with the marriage? Or had it been Fate? It wasn't fair..._

_The smattering of freckles which caressed the bridge of her slightly upturned nose. The chicken pox scar just below her left eyelid. The dimples that bloomed in her flushed cheeks as she ran into the hallway from the garden; her feet bare, the hem of her dress sullied with mud and grass stains; clutching a jar full of tadpoles in her hand; beaming at her governess's look of utter horror as she stood in the door of the schoolroom, hands on hips, waiting for her wayward charge to finally compose herself with ladylike decorum. Her large, calm blue eyes that could look almost green in some lights, twinkling with the thought of yet another prank as she grabbed him by the hand and pulled him away from his books. 'Come on René! You'll love it!' _

He has misinterpreted her, he realises suddenly, shaking off the painful memories of that last morning with Henriette. He had always considered her in his brief knowledge of her as being Marius's angel sweetheart as a delicate Fury; whose power came not in the traditional shades of fire and brimstone that Grantaire has so often told him in his moments of rare sobriety but in the cold, icy art of seduction that he has so diligently tried to avoid being ensnared into. Now he understands how wrong he was. Now he understands that she is just as scared as him, that she truly understands the implications of their revolution; implications that he thought, in his hot headed innocence that he knew. Implications that only now, when their lives are so perilously close to being snapped by Fate's cruel shears, he is beginning to understand. She tries to smile as she takes in his pale face; the wide, blue eyes the colour of calm water still filled with the remains of a sudden, fiery fury that is slowly ebbing from his battered body like the tide being whisked away from the beach.

'That was brave', she all but whispers as she glances anxiously towards Marius who is deep in conversation with Courfeyrac ; his eyes sparkling with the flickering flames of mischief that makes him think of the old days back in the smoky safety of the Café Musain when the lovesick Bonapartist had first joined his motely band of revolutionaries and dreamers. Eyes that have still not lost the haunted expression of supressed pain and loss that he knows none of them will ever lose entirely. An expression of the undiluted longing that they all harbour for the old days when the revolution had been little more than a dream and not the haunting, blood splattered reality now clawing at the dark corners of his brain. That had been when the others… When they were still hoping, still dreaming of a free France… When they really, truly believed that their actions could ignite the fires of change and yet… and yet..._ 'Let others rise to take our place… Until the Earth is free!' _

'That was foolish', he corrects her; the words scraping painfully against his mouth that still feels as if he has swallowed hot ashes, as he desperately tries to shake off unwelcome memories of the Barricade that are crowding at the dark recesses of his brain. 'I… I put you all in danger… I should…' She shakes her head sadly at him and tries to smile, her hand suddenly gripping his jacket tighter, short nails digging into his flesh. The sudden increase in pressure makes him tense as he tries to calm his frantically beating heart. _No… Please… No… Not after they'd come this far…_ He feels Cosette rise and looks up to see M. Frauchlevent standing over him; gazing with wide, exhausted eyes at the bodies slowly unravelling themselves to meet the next move on this steadily changing board that holds the game of life.

'Papa?' Heads turn at the sound of Cosette's voice as she moves slowly through the cramped space towards her father, her hand slipping from his; leaving a faint whiff of cinnamon lingering tantalizingly on his fingertips. 'Papa, what is it?' Her hands shake slightly as she puts a hand on his shoulder as he feels another presence; a very familiar one drop down beside him. The smell of ink and sweat mixed with musty leather makes his nostrils tickle as he feels a calloused hand slip into his shaking paw and the warm comfort of another body collapse next to his own. _Combeferre. Oh God… 'Ferre, please tell me I'm not dreaming… Please…_

Relief, blissfully cold relief washes over him as he feels his muscles relax into Combeferre's comforting weight and his aching shoulders slump. _Combeferre. 'Oh 'Ferre…. I… I… thought we'd lost you…' _Blinking back unwelcome tears, he feels a hand reach over to cup his chin; forcing his face round. The eyes behind the spectacles are wide with fear and yet filled with such compassionate determination as he feels a sudden rush of unadulterous love for his friend. His friend who was willing to walk through Hell and back again… 'It would take more than a blundering customs official to finish me off Mon Ami', his voice is gruff with emotion as he pulls his blond companion closer into his chest; his arms locked around the stained cotton sling that feels like a dead weight across a heart which is hammering so hard that it is a wonder that it has managed to stay contained its ivory cage of bone.

'I was worried for you!' He looks up in mock outrage at the grin which is tugging at Combeferre's unnaturally serious face; a grin which lights up the smattering of freckles, the chicken pox scar in the shape of a crescent moon beneath his left eyelid that could mar the mould of dark perfection, but instead intensifies it. 'I thought…' He swallows, unable to put into words the icy wave of panicked fear that had crashed over him when he realised that his first and best lieutenant was missing. _How much time has passed since then? He doesn't know. Doesn't want to know. How much time do they have left? Not enough. And yet it continues to run on unheeded, continues to slip through his scrabbling fingers like running water through cupped hands..._

_**A/N: Please feel free to read, review and make any suggestions necessary: I'm welcome for anything, suggestions, constructive critisim etc! The next chapter may and this is true; take some time considering it's still being written and needs proofreading and if it's anything like this one, a horrendous amount of picking apart; as well as the fact that I've got my schoolwork and revision (damn A Levels!) so you, my dears will have to wait. That is, unless, you see that little white box? *hint* Like I say, reviews are like my virtual chocolate and so you know, maybe...?**_


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N: Here you go! This is for all the brilliant people who have stuck with this story- I honestly can't thank you enough for all your support and guidance- you are all brilliant in giving me the virtual chocolate I need in the shapes of reviews and follows to help me keep going. Disclaimer: As I am not male, French or living in C18th Paris, how can I possibly own Les Miserables? Don't worry, the action will pick up again in the next one: this is my big Enjolras/Combeferre chapter- so please don't give up on me yet! Enjoy! x**_

The sudden sensation of pressure on his other shoulder. He tenses as a numbing spasm of pain flies through the battered muscles of his broken arm, making his eyes slip shut as his shattered body absorbs the blow and retaliates in the only way possible. He feels himself tense up against Combeferre's hard, dependable chest; feels the fingers digging painfully into the thin fabric. _'Easy Enjolras… I'm here. I won't leave you. Not this time.'_ The soft pressure of a hand slipping silently into his own as fingers entwine in silent invitation_. 'Squeeze all you want Mon Ami. I'm here'._ He does so, silently apologising for the pain which he knows 'Ferre feels as he presses hard onto the long, thin digits; biting his tongue as not to cry out as well; not wanting to alert the others. This is his pain. He can't, won't let the others' feel it; not after they have experienced so much on his behalf. Not after he has put them all in danger of their lives; running like wanted criminals from a force which only now he is beginning to understand the might of. He doesn't hear another body slump down beside him. Doesn't feel the pressure being released off his injured shoulder and placed onto his good knee. His only knowledge is that of fluttering darkness and the comforting pressure of Combeferre's weight at his back; the knowledge that he is here supporting him, that he hasn't left them, left him to face the cold reality of this new, strange reality alone. That his best friend, his first and best lieutenant is here, steadying him as the sudden burst of fire slowly ebbs away; leaving him stranded on the cold, blank canvas of this strange new reality.

'Enjolras?' The sound of a grating gutter French accent mixed with soft hints of Polish brings him steadily back to reality. His eyes sting from a mixture of pain, exhaustion and unshed emotion which he furiously blinks back; refusing to succumb once again to the soft bed of unreality that has been dancing at the corners of his brain for so long. Feuilly kneels up in front of him, his face set and drawn with exhaustion. His dark, onyx eyes are wide with a look of a man who has been deprived of the joys of sleep for far too long and is only now beginning to feel the repercussions. 'We're leaving. M. Frauchlevent's going to talk to the captain. We need to get going, get out of here. The police…' The words hang in the air for a fraction of a second before the blow falls; crashing down on a body that refuses to take it in. _Leaving? But where? How?_ He casts an anxious glance at Combeferre, who for some inexplicable reason is smiling sadly at him; his dark eyes huge in the failing light of the guttering candles.

'You won't like what I'm going to say now Enjolras', his words are slow and deliberate as he digs into the pocket of his cloak and pulls out a slightly dusty bottle which he squints at, his eyes dancing over to Feuilly who rolls his eyes in an expression that clearly says: _'if you must 'Ferre. But please, be quick about it'_ before making a hasty retreat over to where Courfeyrac is trying to sweet talk Adrienne whilst Gavroche and Grantaire look on in wide eyed amazement as the honeyed words slip like silk through the slowly lightening atmosphere of the carriage; oblivious to the fact that they will soon be running for their lives, running from a force which none of them really understand if what Feuilly says is true.

_If he closes his eyes, he can almost trick his broken mind that he is back in the Café Musain and it is just another evening where he is trying to finish a pamphlet for a rally the next day with his friends constantly coming in and giving their suggestions. Combeferre leaning over his shoulder, spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose as he tells him that it is just not 'grammatically correct' to use mixed metaphors in German with a Latinate lexis; a small smirk dancing at the edges of his lips as he readies himself for the oncoming tirade… Courfeyrac teasing Bossuet as he comes stumbling in from the icy street, bringing in the harsh, wet twilight as he slams the door; late as always, tripping over the leg of a chair that has been left unchecked… Grantaire who has passed out where he sits, a hand still clutching at his wine bottle protectively as he slumbers on, completely oblivious to the fact that Bahorel is trying to reason with Joly that 'speckled gout pox' does not exist whilst at the same time trying to comfort a whimpering Jehan who is weeping pitifully over his latest rejection letter from 'The People's Friend' which is lying in a sorry heap of soaked woodpulp and rivers of black ink on the table before them... 'Dear M. Prouvaire...'_

_ Marius… Where is Marius? He looks up briefly from his work; blinking back the inky spots that obscure his vision and scan the crowded noisy room that stinks of ink, gunpowder, sweat and companionship. But the lovesick Bonapartist is nowhere to be seen… 'Leave it Enjolras. Do you hear me? Leave him, he'll come back tomorrow, he's probably had an argument with his grandfather…' Who was that? 'Ferre? 'Feuilly? Bahorel teaching Gavroche how to play cards in a secluded corner; his deep, infectious laughter rumbling through the heady atmosphere of hope and friendship. Oh how he wishes he could go back to that time! Go back and reset the game of life, sweep off the pieces, rest them, try again tomorrow. But he knows he can't. _

'Enjolras? Look at me.' The sound of fingers lightly tapping his face as he slowly surfaces back into reality. He has to blink hating himself; blink away the ghosts of his fallen friends, blink away the sightless eyes, the silently pleading hands that reach in plaintive supplication for a world that was cruelly ripped away from them before they even had a chance to acknowledge the fruits of their labours. _Why did life have to be bitterly unfair? Why? _He can feel hands on his face, clutching his cheeks which are suddenly drenched in a lake of salty emotion that he can't remember shedding. Why does he have to be so weak? 'It's not your fault 'Jolras', Combeferre's voice seems to come from a long way away as he desperately tries to fight the bitter onslaught of memories that are once again threatening to overwhelm him. 'Please? It's not your fault. We all believed it, all of us. ' The repetition and the bitterness in Combeferre's voice seem to confirm his fears because _it is_ his fault. _All his fault. If he hadn't been so careless about his desperate, evanescent dreams that were merely ribbons of hope which had fluttered out of reach before he even had a chance to examine them properly and pull them to pieces to find their flaws. If he hadn't…_

'They wouldn't want you to blame yourself Enjolras', he can hear the choked up tears in his best friend's voice as he moves silently over to his other side and reaches over to grasp his good hand, trying desperately to squeeze some reassurance into the tense digits. He blinks again at the sudden pressure and forces himself to look 'Ferre full in the face, taking in the large, dark eyes which are drooping with exhaustion behind the spectacles, the forced smile, the compassionate bravery etched in every line of lightly freckled skin; forcing himself to forget.

'Listen to me Enjolras. Please? I'm going to give you another dose of Laudanum. It'll dull the pain and help us get you out of here quickly. We'll be safe soon, Mon Ami; trust me._' No. Please, 'Ferre. Not again… I can't… I don't want… Please Mon Ami… _He tries to shake his head at his friend, tries to say something, tell him that he is alright; that he can walk and the pain is not as bad as before, but it is too late. He feels the harsh bite of the metal spoon scrape against the tender roof of his mouth before he fully understands what his friend is doing to him and the unforgiving bitterness of the Laudanum as it surges relentlessly down his screaming throat. Desperately he tries to spit it out, frantically trying to keep a hold on a reality that he has only just made any sense of_. _

_A second pair of hands grips his hair, tipping the icy poison down a protesting throat that does not want to swallow. Voices dance weirdly through the returning blanket of grey blankness that is being pulled steadily across his broken mind; suffocating his silent screams into silence. The voices don't make sense and yet continue to multiply and he can't breathe… Can't speak… Can't think… Unwelcome, unwanted hands bear down on him, making any sense of rational impossible. Why are they doing this to him again? Why? He doesn't know. Nothing makes sense anymore and yet inexplicably it all makes sense in ways his dazed and broken mind does not understand. And yet he has to understand, has to think… He has to lead them… They need him… They… His thoughts seem to grow even fainter as the pain, medication and the nagging, consistent desire for sleep continue to try and overwhelm him. Dimly, he feels strong hands scoop him up into a clutching embrace and a soft voice which he vaguely recognizes softly supporting his shattered mind which, at long last allows itself to be lost to the comforting blackness of sleep._

**_A/N: Please feel free to read and review- I'm open to anything- constructive critisism, suggestions etc are love! The next chapter may take a bit of time, as it's still being written and the tension I'm seeing unfurling in my head is unbearable so it may take some time before I'm happy! Once again, thanks for the lovely support and guidance you've all given me, you are all truly inspirational! Much love x_**


	9. Chapter 9

**_A/N: After a lot of drafting and asking myself why the hell I put my soul through such torment, I am at last able to give you the next installement of 'When Tomorrow Came'. This chapter was... well... hard to write; not least because I am no good at writing tension after I've become so close to these wonderful characters and also because I am now an emotional wreck! However... here goes! As always: as I am not male, French, or living in C18th Paris; how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am merely putting my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into some cohesive structure: please don't sue me! Enjoy! x_**

_The world returns in pieces. The dead weight of his broken arm resting across his chest, supported by the sling that caresses the whole of his left side. The coarse, warm sensation of wool beneath a battered body. Numbing bursts of pain coursing through his broken leg at irregular intervals that make his breath come out in ragged gasps as he desperately tries not to cry out. He does not want to wake his friends, not when at last, at long last; they have been granted this reprieve. The soft rock of the hammock as it swings steadily in time to the ship's slow, methodical swaying as it slowly cuts its' way through the inky black expanse of water that separates them from the unknown realms of Angleterre. Will they really be safe there? He hopes so, prays with every fibre of his battered being, prays that they will be able to find normality; that they will be able to rest; these weary travellers who have seen too much, been through too much; his friends who have followed him without hesitation through Hell and back and will do so until the end of time. Time. Time has no meaning here in this dark chamber, filled with bodies which are at long last lost to the realms of sleep. Time… What is time? How much time has passed since he first thought something was amiss? He doesn't know. A day? Two days? He has no way of knowing, no way of telling. _

_The low, soft breathing of ten, exhausted bodies slowly inhaling and exhaling; succumbed at long last to the security of sleep. A candle flickering, the yellow flame dancing and guttering through the fluttering darkness. The warm security of another, unknown body slumped next to the hammock; fingers clenching and unclenching, desperate for the warmth of another's touch. The comforting, staccato notes of waves lapping at the sides of the ship as it silently surges through the dark, indigo sea flecked with the bright white horses who leap and play without a care in the world, without any knowledge of the fear that still tugs dully at the corners of his slowly awakening brain; as they gallop over their choppy, ceaseless pasture. He feels the unknown body stir sleepily as the digits grip his own, trying to reassure whoever it is; and he has an inclination that he knows who it is (why hasn't he got some rest, like he has tried to force him to do ever since he finally escaped the fever's torturous clutches? He will never understand what goes on in the cynic's head) that he is still alive; that Fate has not considered it part of her perverse duty to carry him back to the angels. A soft, moaning cry coming from the middle of the dark mass of bodies which is answered by whispered words of comfort as another body slips from its' hammock and pads silently over the continuously rocking floorboards whose strange lullaby has sent so many to the strange, grey world of dreams. _

The pressure on his hand has increased. He squeezes back, desperate to reassure his friend that for now at least; all is not lost. That they will get out of this hell together. _They have to… They have already lost too much… They can't, won't lose each other, not now. Not when…_

The sound of footsteps slowly clattering down from unknown heights shatters the heady, sleep filled silence. The frantic thudding beat of his heart as it pounds painfully against his chest. Bodies slowly begin to unravel themselves, sluggishly surfacing from the cool, dark world of dreams. He feels Grantaire's hand slip away from his and tries to reach for it again, suddenly afraid as the unknown footsteps grow steadily louder, thundering through the blank crevices of his brain. Fear, ice cold, yet scalding hot fear leaps at his throat and he swallows painfully, biting it back; refusing to believe that this could be the end. Bodies slip past him, silent shadows that are barely visible in the guttering candlelight. Grantaire moans in his sleep and jerks painfully, his hand reaching out for his, his mop of dark hair shaking in disbelief as he struggles with unknown demons; muttering incoherently under his breath as his body is pulled from its drunken stupor into the cold, clear world of reality. _'It's alright R. I'm here. I'm still here. It's going to be alright.'_ The soft pad of feet on the constantly shifting floor as Adrienne moves silently to sit by her brother; her face full of tender, determined compassion as she gazes down at his pale face, obscured by the tangled mop of dark hair. She gives him a small, tight smile as she softly takes the cynic's hand in hers and clutches it tightly, staring with wide, frightened eyes at the locked door.

The footsteps have grown louder now. He swallows and glances round at the others; silently counting them, desperately trying to reassure himself that they are all there. That they are alright. All the survivors of this bloody hell that his stupid, childlike dream has forced them into. _Combeferre. Courfeyrac. Feuilly. Gavroche. Grantaire. Marius. Cosette. Adrienne. Toussaint. His mother. Monsieur Frauchlevent._

They are coming closer. The thudding rhythm of unknown feet pounding the floorboards mixed in with the frantic thumping of ten hearts; bodies waiting with bated breath. He feels Grantaire's free hand slip back into his and the pressure of another hand on his uninjured shoulder, nails digging painfully through the cotton of his jacket and into the tender flesh of his shoulder blades. Turning his head painfully, he looks up to see Feuilly and Combeferre standing protectively at either side of his hammock; arms folded over frantically beating hearts, large, dark eyes alive with fear as they stare at the door; eyes transfixed, hardly daring to breathe_. This can't be happening. This isn't happening. No… Not after they'd got this far…_ Dimly, he hears the scrabbling of a body scrambling up another and sees Gavroche clinging to Courfeyrac, his face buried in his guardian's shirt; his thin shoulders shaking with silent, fearful sobs. 'Hush 'roche. It's alright. I've got you. Hush now.' The whisper seems unbearably loud in the stifling tension that spirals from every beating heart. _But is it?_ Courfeyrac's hazel eyes, usually so bright with the flames of mischief are huge with terrified anticipation; the pupils dilated in icy terror as he clings to the gamin's shuddering form; refusing to let him go.

The click of unknown boot heels on wood shatters the silence like glass being thrown against wood. They are close now. Too close. Do they know? How do they know? He doesn't know and yet it is his duty to know. He needs to get them out of this alive… He has to… His eyes search the floor, until they land on M. Frauchlevent whose hand is gripping Cosette's shoulder as she clings to Marius so tightly that he can distinctly see the blood rushing to the base of the scarred, weathered skin. Desperately, he tries to choke back the icy torrent of white hot fear that is lapping at his throat, but finds it impossible. His throat is dry with undiluted terror that he desperately tries to swallow but still it rises, steadily coating his barren wasteland of a mouth in white hot fiery lava which he futilely tries to choke back, but to no avail. Somehow, he doesn't know how, he can feel hands on his back, his neck, his shoulders; slowly and calmly moulding his wasted body into a sitting position. Numbing, fiery pain surges through the shattered muscles of his broken leg and he lets out an involuntarily gasp of pain as the bitter cloud of nausea threatens to envelop him once more, biting his tongue in order to stop himself from yelling, vomiting; doing something, anything that would relive him of the consistent, agonising torture, but he can't. He knows he can't. Knows how much depends on them being absolutely silent, if they are to keep the secrecy that has been kept for so long. They can't fail now. Not after they have been through so much, seen so much and still they have survived. He cannot fail them now. He must not. They have come this far…

_He is not willing to make his friends lose their lives after they have come this far. Not now. Not after they have been through so much and all because of his stupid, childish, prideful dreams that had turned to ashes before they had even had a chance to ignite and flare up the fires of change which he so longs for. They deserve to live, to live in the pure white freedom that they have fought for so long for, fought and died for and yet the battered, bleeding remains of his motely band of dreamers still cling on stubbornly at his side. He cannot ask any more of them now, he knows that. They deserve what fleeting, evanescent peace that the distant shores of Angleterre will bring them. He does not. He will not let them die, he cannot; he has to protect them, has to ensure that if anyone dies; it is him. He is the one they want, he is sure of it. Has been sure of it ever since Monsieur Frauchlevent brought his Mother and Adrienne back to them, a lifetime ago. He will welcome death with open arms, he tells himself firmly; if it means that they can survive. It is his duty to make sure that they survive. They have come this far, experienced this much and all because of him. He will not fail them. He cannot fail them like he failed the others, like he failed France…Joly… Bossuet…Jehan… Eponine Thenardier…. The countless other nameless students who had rallied without question to the blood red flag of Liberty and are now blank faced corpses left in unnamed graves; mementos of a failed dream, a lost life, a whole generation of boys who thought they knew what they were doing, but instead were unknowingly lining themselves up outside a blood soaked slaughterhouse of bayonet choruses glinting in the pale, June dawn …._

'Enjolras?' He looks up dumbly through stinging, pain filled eyes, hating himself as he forces the blood soaked memories back in order to see Feuilly's face inches from his own; the large, olive shaped eyes the colour of jet filled with compassionate determination as he takes his good hand in his and squeezes it reassuringly. 'Enjolras, whatever happens; we won't blame you.' His voice is little more than a whisper as he glances round at the sea of pale, frightened yet determined faces who nod in determined assent. He can't speak. Suddenly can't put into coherent words the overwhelming feelings of gratitude that he feels towards his friends as they slowly move as one towards his bed; shielding him from the unknown danger that is steadily moving closer with every frantic thump of his rapidly beating heart. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

The sound of harsh, hushed voices coming closer. Closer. He strains his ears to listen to their whispered conversation but the tension in the room is so thick that it is impossible to make out anything but a few snatches of words that don't make sense. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. The feeling of pressure on his good shoulder as a hand snakes itself down to grasp his own, light finger clutching, curling round stiff digits and he looks up to see his Mother kneeling beside his hammock; her mane of golden brilliance tumbling from its' pins in a waterfall of blond beauty. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. A sharp command cutting the air like a dagger through cloth, the accent unknown, the strange English vowel sounds harsh and grating on an untrained ear. A hand gripping the doorknob, the squeak of wet wood as it expands, the hinges creaking slowly apart; inch, by agonizing inch. He can't breathe. All the oxygen seems to have vanished from his lungs and yet they continue to scream; ragged, rasping breaths that seem painfully loud in the spiralling, suffocating silence. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. He begins to count his breaths; count the rapid, jarring iambs of his heart as it beats with all the ferocity of a military drum in the silence. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. He feels Combeferre's eyes on him, watching him with a look of pained, terrified fear that seems alien on his cold, composed features. He nods and closes his eyes, clutching at his Mothers' hand; knowing that it is the only thing that will keep him from falling into the dark, spiralling abyss of oblivion. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. The ominous, deafening 'click' of a safety catch being slotted back into place. He hears Cosette give a tiny, terrified moan of fear as she buries her head deeper into Marius's chest. He hears Toussaint whisper a prayer as she fervently crosses herself, her eyes fixed on the slatted ceiling as her thick, capable fingers move through the dark beaded rosary hanging from a secluded pocket of her skirt. _'Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grâce. Le Seigneur est avec vous.'_

_The words, once as familiar to him as breathing, slipping like silk through a lisping mouth, seem strange and otherworldly as he remembers fleetingly the many, agonising hours spent in the stuffy choir stalls in Amiens Cathedral; eyes drooping with tiredness, his head spinning with the strange mixture of French and Latin that, aged eight, he was supposed to understand. Memories of tedious hours waiting as the Choir master stood berating them for not singing C Sharp correctly as they waited, looking for all the world lke silent statues, waiting for the next command to rise and throw their voices to the vaulted ceiling that for his tiny self, seemed a million years away._

Gavroche still clings to Courfeyrac, staring at the door with huge, terrified eyes; his lip trembling as he desperately tries to choke back the tears that are threatening to overwhelm him. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. _'Oh my friends, my friends, forgive me…_' The sound of a body being forced against a door. Breath coming out in choked ragged gasps as ten bodies inhale and exhale; refusing to believe that this is the end. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. The pressure on his hand as increased. He squeezes back, feeling his Mothers' eyes on his face, the blue lakes of clear water filled with such gut-wrenching pity that it makes his heart twist painfully in his chest. _He will not lose her. He cannot lose her. Not after they had only just found each other again. _41. 42. 43. 44. 45. Pressure on his good shoulder. He looks up again, blinking slightly to see Combeferre's usually steady hand trembling uncontrollably as it grips to thin fabric of his jacket, nails digging painfully into tender flesh. _'Everybody keep the faith… for certain as our banner flies…'_ _Empty words. Useless words. What use are words now, when they are all about to die the death that should have welcomed them into its dark embrace back on the Barricade? _

Another, harsh, barking command. The sound of the multiple clicking of safety catches rips through his numb brain so quickly, that he barely has time to comprehend it. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. The frantic thumping of his heart as it struggles against his chest. He feels nothing. The tiny, beating organ means nothing to him now. Staring straight ahead, he sees nothing. Hears nothing, only the ringing silence of ten, terrified beings waiting. Waiting for a death which they do not deserve.

The silence, stretches, billows, snaps.

_**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to all the countless, wonderful people who have given this story the time to read, review and follow. You have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated and the fact that you have risen to my challenge of feeding me virtual chocolate in the form of reviews is brilliant! Thank you! The next chapter will take some time, but I do have a vague indication of where this is going (she says, she actually has no idea!) Please feel to read and review- I'm open to anything now- comments, constructive critisism are my idea of heaven at the moment! Much love and enjoy! x**_


	10. Chapter 10

_**A/N: At last, at long last, I am able to give you the final chapter of 'When Tomorrow Came'. I am so, so sorry for the delay; but as you will find out, this chapter was excruitatingly hard to write; not helped by the fact that my soul has died with it and I am now little more than a weeping, emotional wreck who has no feelings left whatsoever. As always: as I am not Male, French or living in C18th Paris; how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me! Enjoy x**_

'In the name of His Royal Highness the Most Reverent King William IV; we, as part of his Majesty's Royal Guard have come with the arrest warrant of one M. René Enjolras.'

Nobody speaks. Nobody moves as the blow falls onto bodies that refuse to accept it. No… This isn't happening… Not after they had come this far… _Not Enjolras… Not Apollo… No… No!_ Time stands still. He feels two pairs of hands instinctively tighten on his shoulders, but whose they are; he doesn't know. It doesn't matter anymore though. Nothing matters anymore apart from the sea of bayonets, glinting in the half-light that bars any chance of escape. A mass of darkly clothed guards with blank, impassive faces stare into the room; eyes hidden under their helmets as they silently survey the scene; their eyes filled with an almost laughable confusion. Were they that misinformed? A small smile of gleeful satisfaction tugs at his icy lips as he continues to watch them; silently daring them to take him. Knowing that they will take him and if they do, he will not go quietly. He cannot; not after so much has already been sacrificed on his behalf…

_One man. Four women. Nine boys. Why nine? One looks little more than twelve; his arms locked around the neck of another, both pairs of eyes huge with undiluted terror. Why is he there? Surely he's not… God knows why… There must be some mistake; perhaps they have misinterpreted the instructions from that informant… Always thought he looked a bit shifty… Always easy to do with those Frenchies… An easy mistake… They had been ordered to take one… But which? __Eyes flicker over the pale, terrfied faces in growing confusion and at last come to rest on the blond head staring back at them in impassive, haughty silence; a slight smirk playing at the corners of his tight mouth; mocking them with all the contempt his shattered self can muster. His large, blue eyes bore into theirs, blank of all expression apart from an inexplicable sense of calm as he waits, the hand that is not bound up in the cotton sling whose white fabric is now sullied to a dull grey resting lightly in the palm of a woman who shares the same calm, blue eyes, same almost regal presence; marred slightly by the tangible taste of fear radiating from all of them. Mother and son? Probably. The silence stretches for what seems like an eternity; broken only by the frantic, desperate beating of fourteen hearts, clinging onto the silver thread of life with every fibre of their beings..._ 51. 52. 53. 54. 55.

The desperate, thudding iambs of his heart seem unnaturally loud in the silence as he stares back into the dark, narrowed eyes of the man whose loud, rough English voice has shattered the silence. It is as if it is desperately trying to cling to a life which, deep down he knows is over. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. A flicker of movement, so small that it was barely noticeable… The pack moving as one, large, dark mass as it closes into its prey… The pressure of his Mother's fingers digging in his palm, desperately keeping him grounded in reality as he stares calmly back into the blank, expressionless faces, waiting…

Without warning, he feels his body being tumbled forcefully from the cocooning safety of the hammock and onto the cold, hard, shifting floor where upon he is forced onto his knees; his muscles screaming with unheard cries of agony as they are forced to contract. Feels hands on his shoulders, trying desperately to pull him back; hands he knows but they are soon overcome by the harsh, hard palms of strangers; forcing him to comply_. He will not comply. He will not come to them like a lamb walking meekly to the slaughterhouse._ He hears a cry of anguished pain ripped from a body that could be Grantaire, could be Combeferre, could be anyone for all he knows as a body is forced back and he is suddenly alone. Alone and falling as his head hits the harsh, cold wooden floor with a sickening crack as he is shoved onto his stomach, the impact of the fall crushing the sling, crushing his broken arm which screams with silent pain as he desperately tries to bite back the sudden onslaught of fearful emotion threatening to overwhelm him as he struggles for breath; desperately trying to remain calm. _Desperately trying to ensure that it is him they get, that the others are left untouched… They have nothing to do with it… _

Dimly, he feels a river of scarlet trickling slowly down from a gash on his forehead as he lies there, thoroughly winded, waiting. Waiting for what? He doesn't know. He knows nothing now, only blood soaked, icy cold pain and fear. Blood runs in a river of scarlet down his face, dripping into his half open, gaping mouth, choking him as he lies there, listening to the frantic thumping of his heart. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. He splutters, tries to cough; but his lungs won't work. They are compressed under an unknown weight as a guard straddles his steadily breaking body, his weight crushing any last whisp of oxygen from his screaming lungs. He will not submit to them. He must not. He has to make sure that the others… Make sure that they at least get out alive… He owes that much to the remnants of his battered, bleeding band of dreamers who have clung on relentlessly to his side, following him into this Hell without complaint, without question. They are the ones who matter. Not him.

_It doesn't matter about him. He is the one they want and they can take him, but not without a fight. The others though… His first and best friends… They have to survive this… It is imperative that they survive…They have to keep together..._

The heady, combined stink of sweat, blood and fear makes him gag as he desperately tries to force his throbbing head upwards. But before he can do anything, before his sluggish, unresponsive brain can even process the thought, he feels fingers' digging like knives into his scalp as a hand yanks his hair back off his face. The cold, metallic whistle of a blade that he barely registers as it comes to rest on the pale, tender skin of his throat. A flick of the wrist… A last, futile, desperate struggle as he tries to throw his head back… A thin, metallic note that cuts through his brain; searing his skin like ice cold fire…

Pain. It envelopes him in a thick black cloud that is slashed with blood which consumes the continuous, never ending scream that is ripped from him before he can even think about restraining it. Desperately he struggles against the bearlike grip that restrains him, forcing him to submit to an unknown authority; his silent cries of pain and fear drowned in the rising confused crescendo of voices which don't make sense. Nothing makes sense. A sudden explosion of agony in his face as he feels the swinging thud of a fist followed by the sickening crunch of knucklebone on blood caked lips. A river of scarlet blooms from his broken nose and dribbles sickeningly into his open mouth as he continues to lash out; desperately trying to stand and yet knowing that his injured leg will never take the weight. It bursts in a sudden explosion of fiery heat through his abdomen and he doubles over, retching; his chest heaving as the acidic tang of bile rises steadily up his parched throat. His leg, unable to take the strain, buckles under his weight and he finds himself sprawled on the constantly shifting floor; the cold, hard wood digging painfully into the thin fabric of his trousers, caressing his battered face as he tries to right himself. Right himself before they sense his moment of weakness and press their advantage...

From somewhere he hears a word being screeched into the chaos; but his brain is so full of blood and pain and ice cold fear for his friends that it makes no sense. Dimly, he feels his head being yanked up again; firm, unwelcome hands gripping his sweat soaked hair between thick fingers, nails digging painfully into his scalp as his slowly breaking body continues to twist, desperately, fruitlessly trying to evade the unknown, unwelcome hands that continue to beat his steadily breaking body into submission.

He can't see. Can't think. Can't breathe. The only thing that makes any sense is the pain that has enfolded him into a clutching, perverted embrace and refuses to let him go. It dances tantalizingly before his shattered eyelids; blood red… burning amber… brilliant, blinding white… Unconsciously he can feel the sliver of scarlet trickling with sickening slowness down his neck; feels the persistent throb of his pulse as the hobnailed toe of an unknown boot catches the sling; throwing him across the constantly shifting floor as he was nothing but a poppet doll that Henriette used to play with. Instinctively his useless body curls up and rolls over in a futile attempt to avoid whatever is causing his torment, but the pain is not yet over. The shattered muscles in his arm scream in silent agony as he furiously blinks back scalding, salty tears of pain, fear and rage, trying desperately not to cry out. He will at least, refuse them that one satisfaction. He has to. And yet… _It wasn't meant to end like this. He wasn't supposed to die like this, curled up like a frightened animal with no means of defending himself, of defending his friends. He has to defend them, they need him. He has to… He will not let them do this to him. If he dies, he will die upright, facing his foes, silently mocking them until the bitter end. They will not break him. They can break his body as much as they want but they will not break his pride. _

Another numbing explosion of pain rips through him as the unknown boot continuously kicks him over and over again; the steel capped toe delighting in the mutilation of any vulnerable scrap of skin it can find. Silent screams crowd tantalizingly around his barren, bloody mouth but he chokes them back because deep down he knows that is what they want. They want to know how much they can reduce this golden, godlike leader into being nothing but a bloody, bleeding scrap of humanity. They want to know how much they can throw at him before the marble statue crumbles completely and is nothing but a sorry heap of powdered ash; he knows that much. He will not give them that satisfaction he tells himself over and over again; as he lies curled up against the continuous ferocity of the blows raining down on his breaking body. They do not deserve it, they will not have it. That, at least he is sure of; if nothing else.

_He will not give them what they want. He clings to the thought as tightly as he clings to the presence of his friends whom he cannot see; clinging to the fact that they are here, that they are not yet blank faced corpses, clinging to the fact that despite his folly, there is a chance that they will survive … They have to survive, all of them.. Combeferre… Courfeyrac… Gavroche… __Grantaire… Marius… Cosette… His __Mother__… M. Frauchlevent…Adrienne… Toussaint… Joly… __Bahorel… Bossuet… Jean Provaire… Eponine Thenardier… It is their duty to survive… To be free… _

Harsh, hard hands grip his shoulders, heaving him to his feet as he staggers, his injured leg buckling under the sudden weight of his broken body. Blurred shapes flicker weirdly through a half closed eye, squeezed painfully shut by a blow that he can't remember receiving. Shapes that have no meaning and yet they do and he can't think why or where... His brain is slowly dying with the excruciating pain that his body is desperately trying to retaliate against. He welcomes it. Welcomes the sense of numb unreality that is slowly creeping over his steadily breaking mind._ It will soon be over. All of it. They will soon be able to taste the sweet wine of freedom… _

His leg buckles again as he staggers against the unknown chest; taught spasms of fiery, icy pain surging relentlessly through the broken limb but the hand gripping the collar of his jacket keeps him upright; the suddenly taught tendons screaming in silent agony as they refuse to take his weight. The sharp sounds of unknown vowels jar painfully on his ears as once again he hears the ominous 'click' of a sea of safety catches being released. This is the end. He is going to die. Die like Joly, like Bahorel, like Bossuet, like Eponine Thenardier, like Jehan, like the countless other nameless students who gave their little lives to Patria, to a cause that had died before it even had a chance to ignite and live… Die a death that should have been dealt in France, in Patria; not in an unknown ships hold in the middle of a stretch of choppy, indigo water that is so tantalizingly close to the bright white land of freedom. He just hopes, prays… He is going to die the death which Fate has decreed for him long ago, but for some inexplicable reason has kept the card safely stored in her deck; refusing to use it until the time is right… She will use it now. _'Enjolras, whatever happens; we won't blame you'. Oh my friends… Don't give up hope…_

_His last thoughts before his brain shuts down completely are of his friends. His stubborn band of revolutionary dreamers who have clung to his side regardless of where his prideful imaginings for a free France have taken them, regardless of the dangers which only now are they beginning to understand… He hopes that they will be safe, that M. Frauchlevent can do what he could not… That their sacrifice will not be in vain, unlike so many of the others who had risen to his scarlet Liberty flag without question; completely oblivious to the fact that their little, insignificant lives would soon be cut with as much care as a farmer at harvest time, slicing through fresh wheat with a sickle. That they at least will be able to enjoy the blissfully rare taste of the freedom that they had fought so long for. That they will be able to find the fleeting, evanescent sense of peace that they have hoped for, dreamed of in all those candlelight hours holed up in the Café Musain. Peace that is so tantalizingly close and yet so far away… _

'Does the accused have any last words?' The attempt at chivalry is almost laughable as he eyes the official who had pronounced his death sentence through half closed lids, his brain sluggishly returning to reality; his eyes swollen shut by a rainbow of brutal bruising. Dark indigo. Deep blue. Vicious yellow. He does, but they are not the ones that these English men will want to hear. They dance tantalizingly on his lips, teasing his lolling, barren tongue but he bites them back. Not yet. He hears the steady, resounding 'click' of the safety catches; hears the panicked, combined intake of breath from nine bodies who have been through too much and all for his sake; hears his heart; the regular, steady iambs now disjointed; as if it too knows this; at last, at long last, is the end. His brain is suddenly full of flickering memories; memories of a different life. Memories of his friends, his brothers, his blissful childhood in Amiens that now seemed little more than a distant dream…

_Combeferre's smile as they walked back to the apartment, discussing Robespierre's conflicts with Danton and Desmoulins… Bahorel's infectious laugh as he swings Gavroche up onto his shoulders… Jehan's poetry, floating through a body so young, so innocent that it had been hard to believe that he actually understood what they were fighting for… Feuilly's courage leaping high in his wide dark eyes as he took his good hand in his- 'we'll keep fighting Enjolras. We'll keep fighting for you. Don't worry about us Mon Ami. We'll be alright.' Joly's anxiety for Gavroche as he brings him the latest figures of the influenza epidemic that was sweeping the slums of Paris like wildfire, shaking snow out of his mop of dark hair and wringing his hands in desperation… Courfeyrac's wit as he teases Marius about Cosette, trying to guess her name... Grantaire's cynical adoration that only now, when he is about to die, he fully understands. Bossuet's philosophical debates on the meaning of luck… Marius's passionate love for Cosette, which he so often ridiculed with the Bonapartist slipped away into the shadows of the night, but only now truly understands… Gavroche's childlike innocence that shrouded a heart which held such courage and determination for the band of wide eyed street urchins who thought of him as a God. Henriette's wicked grin as they danced that final, graceful minuet in the sun bathed field listening to Argos's frantic, confused barks, basking in the dying rays of childhood innocence… His Mother's wide blue eyes filled with compassionate determination as she takes his good hand in hers and kisses it, thumbing away the silver lakes of salt that stained his face as he listened in desperation for Combeferre and M. Frauchlevent's return to the dark, comforting world of safety… _

He raises his head slowly to look the man full in the face; forcing his exhausted eyes open to their fullest extent, taking in the dark sea of bayonets surrounding him; barring any chance of escape. Silently hoping, praying that they do it now; before he loses his nerve. _A splash of scarlet cloth fluttering in a sticky, stagnant breeze… A girl's twinkling laugh as two bodies dance in a field bathed in a bath of pure gold… Faces… Names… Memories… Four words shouted into a shocked silence… _

'Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!'

_**Fin**_

_**A/N: This is for all the countless people who have believed in this story (especially Sarahbob- you have been wonderful!) and given up their time to read, review, follow and feed me the virtual chocolate I need to keep going- I honestly can't thank you enough and would have stopped long ago had it not been for your determination to read more of this! Much love and once again, please feel free to read and review: I'm open to anything! Phoenixflames12 xxxx**_


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